


Knife Skills

by skeilig



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Comedy, Daniel and Amanda are already divorced in this, Gen, M/M, Rivalry, every sports movie could be about food and i'll prove it, except gayer, fighting via yelp reviews, this is basically a season 1 rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: Miguel reaches into his backpack to pull out a copy of the local newspaper. Sure enough, there’s Daniel’s stupid smiley face just above the centerfold. The headline reads: LOCAL CHEF GIVES BACK. “He’s starting an apprenticeship program for kids to get culinary training. I might apply for it.”“Give me that.” Johnny snatches the newspaper. He flips it open to scan the photo: Daniel in his chef coat, arms crossed, in the shiny stainless steel kitchen. A colorful platter of sushi before him, bowls of ramen. “I know this guy.”Or: Johnny starts a taco truck, hires Miguel, and parks directly outside of Daniel’s sushi restaurant.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Miguel Diaz & Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 40
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

Johnny should’ve known this day was going to be a bad one from the moment he woke up to discover he overslept. The alarm clock on his bedside table blinks 12:00, a sure sign that the power must have gone out and back on at some point during the night. He stares at it for a second then ponders the full bright daylight streaming in through the window, glinting off the aluminum beer can that sits half-full beside his alarm clock. Then he says, “ _Shit_ ,” and scrambles up and out of bed. 

He’s late to work, a diner in Reseda, for the third time in the past month he’s been working there as a line cook. The chef, Phil, a short but burly guy with tattooed knuckles, is predictably unhappy about this.

“Come on, Phil,” Johnny attempts to bargain. Phil chops an onion menacingly. “I’ll stay late today. Come early tomorrow. My power went out so my alarm clock didn’t go off. Just bad luck.”

“Why don’t you set an alarm on your phone?” interjects Luis, a twenty-year-old dishwasher who’s incapable of minding his own business.

Johnny glances to him in confusion. “An alarm on a phone? What are you talking about?” 

The diced onion hits the hot range with a hiss. Phil wipes the blade of the knife on his apron and turns to Johnny. “You’re either not here or you’re drunk.”

“Luis is drunk!” Johnny points out. 

“Luis is here,” Phil says. “This was your last strike.”

“Fine,” Johnny says. “This place sucks anyway.” 

On his way out of the kitchen, he snatches a strip of bacon from the grill, scalding his fingers in the process, but it’s worth it.

Over the years, Johnny’s held a lot of different jobs at a lot of different restaurants all over the valley: a midrange steakhouse, beachside seafood, a handful of burger joints, a Mexican restaurant, diners and fast food to fill in the gaps. He likes the work and he’s good at it. He’s not as skilled at showing up on time, showing up sober, and not getting in fights when he does. At this point, with no good references and lots of bad blood, it’s harder and harder to find something new when he screws up his latest gig. 

That day, Johnny stops by a gas station on the way home to pick up a newspaper and a six-pack of Coors. He cracks one open in the parking lot, sitting behind the wheel, while he pages through the classifieds. It’s a whole lot of nothing; a bunch of restaurants he’s already worked at, and is now all but banned from walking through the door. Some days it feels like the whole world is pitted against him. 

He pauses and glances up because he smells something _good_ wafting through the cracked windows of his Firebird. There’s a food truck parked across the lot, a small line of customers queued up for lunch. 

Maybe not the _entire_ world is pitted against him. Johnny hops out of his car and goes to get in line. The menu’s written on a chalkboard on the side of the truck, and there’s a jar stuffed with tips among some crusty barbecue sauce bottles. Three guys work inside, one at the grill tending to the sizzling meat, one assembling the sandwiches, the third taking orders. Johnny orders a pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw, hands over a few bills and steps aside to wait. 

As he watches the three of them inside, he starts to get an idea.

“How much does a truck like this put you out?” 

The cashier considers as he restocks napkins. “Maybe eight grand… something like that. Fifteen with all the equipment.”

Hell of a lot cheaper than renting retail space, just about anywhere in the valley. 

“And you’re your own boss?” Johnny asks. “Free to work when you want, where you want?” 

“No, he’s my boss,” the cashier says, nodding to the guy at the grill behind him, who laughs. The cashier reaches to hand Johnny his sandwich in a paper boat. 

“Thanks.”

Johnny goes back to his car to eat, watching as customers come and go from the truck. 

Later in the week, Johnny meets his stepdad Sid and—his nurse? Personal caretaker? Johnny’s still not sure what her actual job is, other than to argue with him—Rhonda at a Japanese place on Ventura for lunch. Johnny’s never been here, but the interior is minimalist and modern, wood paneled walls, and neatly trimmed bonsai trees everywhere—explaining the namesake of the restaurant, he supposes: Bonsai Sushi. 

Johnny’s not actually a big fan of sushi, but he’s not paying and it wasn’t his choice. But when the waitress comes to take orders, it seems like Sid isn’t a fan either so maybe Rhonda’s really calling the shots. Sid and Johnny eventually muddle through their orders and they’re left alone to talk.

Sid fixes him with a stern look, beady eyes under his wiry gray brows, and says, “So you lost another job? And now I bet you’re gonna ask me for more money.”

“No, actually–” Johnny starts on instinct before he remembers that his plan actually was to try to get some money. But not a handout. An investment. He pauses and starts again. “No, I left that job because I’m sick of working for the man. I’m gonna be my own boss.”

Sid and Rhonda exchange a glance, clearly amused at Johnny’s expense. When the hell did they get so chummy? 

“So you need money,” Sid says. 

“I have an investment opportunity,” Johnny begins, fumbling for his papers. He brought _papers_. He researched the cost of the truck, supplies, how quickly he could make it back… Typed it all up and printed it at the library. “I just need a little start-up seed and I’ll pay you back… with interest.” 

Johnny can’t help but smile a little proudly while Sid flips through the proposal. “Why don’t you go to a bank with your little business plan? Get a loan?” 

His smile falters. “Well, my credit is…”

“Terrible.”

“Yeah, I can’t get a loan like this, but if you look at–”

“Bad credit means the bank won’t trust you to pay them back,” Sid says. He hands the papers back to Johnny. “Why should I?” 

“The plan’s all there.” Johnny feels scolded, a little childish, as he takes the papers back. “I watched another food truck for an hour, saw how much business they did, and so if I get the same–”

“What if you don’t get as much business?” Sid asks, scowling. “What kind of food are you selling?” 

Johnny feels deflated. “I haven’t totally decided yet, but probably–”

“You haven’t decided yet?” Rhonda cuts in, laughing. 

Johnny considers walking out—he doesn’t need this shit—but he still wants the free lunch so he folds up his business proposal, tucks it into his pocket, and pouts.

“Maybe this place is hiring,” Sid suggests. 

“I don’t like sushi,” Johnny says right as the waitress appears to slide a bowl of edamame onto the table. She graciously does not acknowledge anything and slips away. 

“What are these, beans?” Sid asks skeptically. “A bowl of beans?” 

Johnny takes one and pops the entire slightly-furry pod into his mouth. He chews it until the actual food arrives. He ordered a California roll because it seemed patriotic. 

He’s stabbing one of the rolls with a chopstick when he hears someone behind him say, “I’ll tell Chef LaRusso you’re here.” 

_What_.

Johnny glances over his shoulder and watches the waiter head back toward the kitchen. “LaRusso?” he mutters to himself. No way. 

“What’s that?” Sid asks, not interested enough to look up from the sushi roll that he picking apart with a fork. 

“Nothing, I have to… bathroom,” Johnny says and shoves up from the table. 

He makes a beeline for where he imagines the bathroom might be, down a hallway past the bar. 

_LaRusso?_ That little twerp works here? Seriously? Johnny hasn’t seen him in over thirty years. 

Unfortunately he misjudged which hallway led to the bathroom. This one leads directly to the kitchen, and he’s only just figured that out when the door swings open and he comes face to face with Daniel LaRusso. 

Daniel stops in his tracks, clearly surprised, looking back at Johnny. He’s wearing a buttoned-up chef’s coat, wiping his hands on the apron around his waist. He looks alarmingly fresh-faced, bright-eyed, tan arms against the white of his coat. 

Johnny knows he looks like shit right now: scruffy days-old beard, hungover a little worse than usual, wild-eyed, wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. 

“Johnny Lawrence?” Daniel says and he smiles. 

“Hey,” Johnny says slowly, still frozen in front of him. “LaRusso. You work here? I was just looking for the…” 

“For the bathroom?” Daniel guesses, still smiling. He steps closer and then past Johnny with a pat on his arm. “Other side of the bar. This is the kitchen.” Johnny thinks that’s the end of it but then he turns around and adds: “And I own the place.”

With another flashed smile Daniel heads off onto the floor to greet a family sitting at a table by the windows. Johnny watches a moment, staring openly as Daniel chats with the mother and son; he crouches down to show the kid how to use the chopsticks. 

Johnny turns on his heel and goes to the bathroom. Stays there for a few minutes, long enough that he figures Daniel must have returned to the kitchen. The coast is clear when he peeks his head out so he goes back to the table and chokes down the rest of his California roll.

With no other options for procuring start-up seed, and after an unproductive trip to the pawn shop, Johnny decides to sell his Firebird. It’s the only thing he owns of any value, but as he soon finds out most of that value is personal. Still, it helps scrape together what he needs for the truck. It’s a clunker but pre-furbished, already outfitted with a grill and a fridge and a generator, a window that opens up on one side to take orders and serve. 

He drives the truck home—it’s his only mode of transportation now—and adjusts to the wider turn radius, the slower acceleration and braking, the big blind spots. Probably shouldn’t drive this one drunk for a while. 

He’s not sure exactly what food he’s going to serve yet… but definitely something badass. He should paint flames on the side of the truck. 

By the end of the week, Johnny has decided on tacos. Quick and easy to make a few variations, delicious, popular, and totally badass. He paints flames in orange and yellow and red on the side of the truck, fanning up around the name, which he spray paints in bold black, using a stencil: JOHNNY’S ALL-AMERICAN TACOS. A bald eagle bares its fangs above the lettering.

Then he has to get started. He drives around for a while, in search of somewhere to set up shop, and soon decides on a supermarket parking lot. He pulls up, parks, gets the generator going, and starts frying meat. If you cook it, they will come. 

A few people do come; it’s lunch time, and he gets a modest line going, churning out tacos. It’s a lot of work by himself, taking orders and then spinning around to man the grill. He’s busy, mind in a lot of places at once in a way that feels focused and like he’s hitting a groove. It feels good, not like most of the jobs he’s had recently where he felt bored and incompetent. He’s _good_ at this. 

His back is turned, tending to the carnitas on the grill, when someone approaches the window and says, “Sir?” Johnny calls back, “Just a sec,” because he’s busy chopping up the tougher pieces of meat. 

“Sir, can I see your permit?” 

Johnny turns around. It’s a cop in uniform, looking up at him, eyebrows raised. 

“Permit?” Johnny repeats dumbly. 

“If you don’t have a permit you need to pack up and go.” 

Johnny stares back at the cop for a few seconds but he doesn’t seem like he’s joking. “Seriously?” Johnny tries. 

“Seriously. Pack up.” The cop takes a step back on the sidewalk to wait and watch. 

“Where do I get a permit?” Johnny asks, to no answer. “Dick,” he mutters, turning around to start packing up. 

Johnny’s back to his apartment complex by the afternoon, with not much money, a lot of food, and nowhere to sell it. He parks the truck out front to start carting everything back inside. He’s taking the first stack—a vat of salsa and bag of shredded lettuce—toward his apartment when he crosses paths with a neighbor kid he’s seen a couple times before. 

The kid’s in high school, tall and skinny with braces, a backpack hanging off his shoulders. He holds the gate open for Johnny. 

“Thanks,” Johnny says. 

“No problem. Cool truck.” 

Johnny looks at the kid for a second. “Hey, you wanna help me with something? I’ll give you five bucks.” 

The kid shrugs. “Sure.” 

The kid’s name is Miguel Diaz and Johnny fishes out a five dollar bill from the till to pay him for his trouble. He helps Johnny carry all the leftover food back into his apartment and into the fridge. It takes a few trips, giving Johnny enough time to explain his situation with the permit. 

“And then this cop shows up,” Johnny says, piling plastic containers of cooked pork into Miguel’s noodle-arms, “asking to see my permit. Nobody told me I needed a permit.” 

“I mean, I don’t think you can sell food anywhere you want,” Miguel says, a little out of breath from the trips they’ve taken so far. “You probably need a health inspection.” 

“How do I get that?” 

“Dunno.” Miguel’s arms are shaking a little under the weight so Johnny sends him on his way without making him carry anything else. 

Back in Johnny’s apartment, when they’ve finished packing everything away into the fridge, Johnny asks Miguel if he wants something to eat. “I’m not gonna finish all this on my own, anyway,” he says. “Might take a few days to get this paperwork together.” 

“Sure.” Miguel takes a seat at the kitchen table, clearing away some empty beer cans to make space in front of him. 

Johnny gets a pan ripping-hot on the stove, heats up the meat, gets a few tortillas nice and warm and throws it all together on a couple plates. He brings himself a beer and grabs a can of soda for the kid. 

Miguel eats one bite and his eyes go wide. “This is _so_ good.” He eats the rest in a few big bites, leaning over the plate so the salsa and juices don’t drip everywhere. “How’d you make this?”

“Top secret recipe,” Johnny says, feeling self-satisfied as he digs into his own plate. 

“Hey, I searched for…” Miguel licks his fingers off and wipes them on his shirt before sliding his phone across the table toward Johnny. “How to get a permit for your truck.”

He’s got the county website pulled up, a page specifically about the requirements for operating a food truck. This kid’s incredible. “Mind if I…?” Johnny’s already reaching to take the phone before Miguel answers, taking a scroll through the page. He takes note of what he needs to get done: register as a business, get a food handler’s permit, complete a health inspection… Lots to do. He thanks Miguel and slides his phone back. “Hey, do you have an after school job?” 

It takes a couple weeks to get everything sorted. Miguel’s helpful. He lives in the apartment just across the courtyard from Johnny, with his mom and grandmother, and he apparently doesn’t have much of a life because he’s home every afternoon by 3:30. 

“When do I get to learn how to cook?” Miguel asks, looking up from the laptop he brought over to help fill out the requisite forms. He’s sitting at the kitchen table in Johnny’s apartment.

“You want to learn how to cook?” Johnny raises an eyebrow as he tips back his bottle of Coors to take a sip. 

“Well, yeah, that’s why I said I’d take the job,” Miguel says. “Not to… fill out paperwork for you.”

“It’s called a job for a reason, Diaz.”

“I don’t really… _need_ a job,” Miguel says. “I just want to learn how to… D’you ever watch Food Network?” 

Johnny stares at him blankly. 

“It’s really cool how these chefs can take a bunch of ingredients and figure out how to make something with no recipe,” he goes on. “I really wanna learn how to do that. Or, like, food from all around the world. I usually just eat what my grandma makes and it’s good but I want to try… you know, like, new stuff. Like there’s that sushi place in Encino that’s–”

“Sushi is disgusting,” Johnny says flatly. 

“No it’s not,” Miguel says. “I mean, I’ve only had, like, California rolls from the gas station, but it’s good so real sushi is probably even better. And the chef, he’s from here, but he studied in Japan.”

“You know the chef?” 

“No, I read something about him though.” Miguel reaches into his backpack to pull out a copy of the local newspaper. Sure enough, there’s Daniel’s stupid smiley face just above the centerfold. The headline reads: LOCAL CHEF GIVES BACK. “He’s starting an apprenticeship program for kids to get culinary training. I might apply for it.” 

“Give me that.” Johnny snatches the newspaper. He flips it open to scan the photo: Daniel in his chef coat, arms crossed, in the shiny stainless steel kitchen. A colorful platter of sushi before him, bowls of ramen. “I know this guy,” he mutters, and tosses the newspaper onto his kitchen counter. 

Miguel’s eyes are wide and admiring. “You do?”

“Yeah, he’s a real jerk,” Johnny says and Miguel’s face falls. “And he’s not a good chef. You don’t want to be his apprentice. I used to work with him so trust me.”

“When did you work with him?”

“A long time ago,” Johnny says. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll teach you.”

The kid’s face lights up again. “Really?” 

“Yeah, whatever, finish that form and we’ll get started.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Lawrence,” Miguel says, immediately turning back to the laptop screen. 

“You call me chef,” Johnny says. “When we’re in the kitchen, you call me chef.” 

“Yes, chef,” Miguel says. 

“If you’re gonna learn how to cook,” Johnny says, “first you need to learn how to taste.” 

He rolls up a dish rag and holds it out to Miguel who stares questioningly back at him. 

“It’s a blindfold,” Johnny says. “Put it on.” 

“Yes, chef.” Miguel dutifully wraps it over his eyes, tying it behind his head. 

“I’m gonna mix up some stuff and you’re gonna tell me every ingredient you can identify. Capisce?” 

“Got it.” 

Johnny raids his fridge for a few old condiment bottles and mixes up a few concoctions, most of which turn into a muddy grayish sludge as he stirs. He gives the first one to Miguel, handing him a spoonful of it. 

“Try it.”

Miguel takes a taste, putting the entire spoonful in his mouth, and immediately starts gagging. “Oh my _god_ , that’s awful,” he sputters, ripping the blindfold off as he turns to spit into the sink. “What’s _in_ that?” 

“You tell me, Diaz,” Johnny orders. “ _Think_. Blindfold on. Only what you can taste and smell.” 

Miguel gives him a dirty look but he obeys, putting the towel back over his eyes. He takes another cautious taste and grimaces. “Ugh, god. Is that… pickle juice?” 

“Yes. And what else?” 

He smacks his tongue a few times. “Horseradish, definitely. And is that… chocolate syrup?” 

“Yes!” Johnny claps him on the back in celebration. “Well done. Time for the next one.”

They go on like that for a while, Johnny mixing up terrible things for Miguel to try, but the kid does pretty well. By the fifth one, he knows the drill. He sighs and sticks his tongue out to get the smallest taste possible. But this time he doesn’t immediately erupt into a coughing fit. Instead he hums with interest and puts the rest in his mouth.

“Mm, that’s actually good. What’s in that?”

“Really?” Johnny picks up the bowl he mixed it in and gives it a sniff. 

“Yeah, it’s really good.”

Johnny swipes his finger through the rest of the sludge in the bowl and tastes it. It feels immediately like his soul leaves his body—not in a good way. He pushes Miguel aside, who’s already laughing, and spits into the sink. 

“Diaz! That tastes like shit!” 

Miguel’s laughing so hard he’s out of breath. He’s slipped his blindfold off and when he catches a sight of Johnny he just starts laughing harder. “Your _face!_ ”

“Okay, okay, very funny,” Johnny says. The acrid aftertaste still burns on the back of his tongue; he holds back a gag. “Enough with the taste tests. We’re moving onto knife skills.”

At the end of the night, after Miguel leaves, sporting several bandaids on his hands, Johnny gets another beer and sits down to read the article about Daniel’s restaurant. 

He feels an uneasiness stirring in his stomach, but it might just be lingering indigestion from the shit that Miguel made him eat. 

_The New Jersey-born chef moved to Reseda in high school, where he began working in restaurants. “It was just a job at first,” LaRusso says. “But I had a great friend and teacher when I was a teenager. He opened my eyes to a whole new world. That’s what I want to try to do for other kids.” Bonsai serves more familiar Japanese fair—sushi, ramen—alongside dishes traditional to the island of Okinawa, where LaRusso lived and studied in his twenties._

“Prick,” Johnny mutters and tosses the newspaper onto his coffee table, where it knocks a few empty cans over with a clatter. 

Daniel thinks he’s such a great guy, huh? Trying to teach kids? He’s probably just running a scam to get cheap help in the kitchen. 

Johnny spends the rest of the night drinking, soon breaks out the Jim Beam, and gets on his new smart phone that Miguel helped him connect to the internet earlier that day. He searches for Daniel’s restaurant, looks at pictures from the opening five years ago, an award it won last year—then he starts scrolling through reviews. _Five stars. Great food, friendly service! Daniel is a gift to our community!_

Johnny gets angrier the more he reads, and the more he reads the more he drinks. Eventually he leaves his own one-star Yelp review (“The sushi tastes like dick and LaRusso would know”) before he passes out on his couch. 

On the first (official) day of JOHNNY’S ALL-AMERICAN TACOS, Johnny is determined to make up for the time and money lost to bureaucracy. What’s this country coming to, anyway? All these regulations. No wonder small businesses are dying. But Johnny’s no quitter and he persevered and now he is legally permitted to sell tacos from a truck in Los Angeles county. Dreams do come true. 

He starts the morning with food prep at home before he packs up the truck and heads out in search of a good spot for the lunch rush. Soon he sets up shop in a strip mall parking lot and opens for business. It’s not busy but it’s steady; people coming and going from errands, on their lunch break, happy to find quick cheap food. He serves beef slow-cooked to tenderness the night before, then quickly seared on the range and topped with salsa. Five bucks for two street tacos; it’s solid, respectable food. Unpretentious and honest, not concerned with the presentation or being _fancy_. 

It’s after 1pm when there’s a lull and he stares out over the parking lot. When the high school lets out, around 3, he’ll go and pick up Miguel. He should take a break before then, make something to eat himself. 

He’s contemplating this, staring out over the parking lot, when his eyes land on three young guys, gathered over by the dumpster. They’re smoking cigarettes, holding skateboards, laughing with each other. One of them, the blond one, actually looks a lot like… 

The kid turns around and Johnny’s stomach sinks. 

“Robby?” he mutters. He’s so preoccupied staring that he accidentally leans back against the stove. The heat on the heel of his hand registers as a burn half a second later and he jumps back, hissing. “Shit… goddamn it.” 

Holding his burnt hand to his mouth, Johnny turns down the heat and stumbles out the open back door of the food truck. 

Robby, obviously, sees him coming. He and his two friends stare as Johnny jogs across the parking lot toward them.

“Hey! Robby!”

“What are you doing here?” Robby asks, taking a step forward, away from the other two guys. One of them snickers and says, “Cool t-shirt, man,” to Johnny.

Johnny glances down, having forgotten he’s sporting his new merch. The fanged eagle is front and center, framed by flames. He shakes his head, getting back on topic. “I could ask you the same thing, Robby. Aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?” 

“Ooh, you’re in trouble,” the other guy taunts, laughing. 

“It’s a day off,” Robby says, smirking. 

“It’s– no it’s not a day off,” Johnny says. He nods back toward the truck. “Come on, I’m taking you back to school.” 

Robby raises his eyebrows and shoots a look back at his friends. “That’s your new ride?” 

“Yeah, it’s– it’s my new business, but–”

“Did you get fired again?” Robby asks. “Was it the drinking?” 

“Hey, we’re not talking about me,” Johnny says. “You’re the one skipping school, come on, let’s go.” He reaches for Robby’s arm but barely gets a hand on him before he’s slapped away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Robby says it with such venom, his voice trembling with rage, that Johnny freezes, shocked. “I got expelled, okay? The dean tried to call you but you didn’t pick up. Eventually got ahold of Mom. I guess she didn’t tell you.” 

“You got expelled? Robby, what did you do?” 

“Like you care,” he says, shoving roughly past him to take off across the parking lot. He drops his skateboard to the ground and kicks off. 

“Hey, come on!” Johnny yells after him. 

“See ya later, Dad!” one of Robby’s friends yells as they run after him, still laughing, the little creeps. 

On his way past the food truck, Robby reaches up to grab the tip jar—half full after a good lunch hour—takes all the money and tosses the jar carelessly over his shoulder. The plastic bounces off the pavement. 

“Robby, seriously?” 

At 3pm, Johnny’s got the truck parked outside the high school, ready for business as the kids start to spill outside. He figures as long as he’s picking up Miguel anyway, might as well try to sell some teenagers an after school snack. Soon he has a short line, taking and filling orders, but some blond chick asks if he has anything “vegan.” 

“Vegan?” Johnny repeats. “No, I only serve real food. Do you want beef or pork or do you wanna keep being a special little snowflake?”

“Ew, never mind,” she says and walks away. 

“Ew yourself!” Johnny calls after her. He spots Miguel walking by, flanked by two miserably geeky looking boys—seriously this kid is right on the edge of hopeless—and calls to him. “Hey, Miguel! Over here!” 

Everyone in line turns to stare at him, and Miguel goes wide-eyed. He slinks over behind the truck and hisses through the open door, “I thought you were just gonna pick me up and go.” 

“There’s money to be made,” Johnny calls back. “Get your ass in here, I need help. Oh, I got you a t-shirt.” He grabs it and tosses it to Miguel, who catches it and gives it a critical look.

“This is the t-shirt?”

“Yeah, pretty badass right?” 

“I just.” Miguel’s still standing outside of the truck, acting shifty, speaking in a voice almost too low to hear over the whir of the generator. “It’s kind of embarrassing to work here serving food to all my classmates.” 

Johnny turns to look at him, taking in his expression for a moment.“What’s embarrassing about this?” 

Miguel just raises his eyebrows for a moment, as if trying to telepathically communicate something. When Johnny doesn’t react, he sighs dramatically and steps up into the food truck. “Fine. Whatever. I’m already a loser.” He pulls on the t-shirt over what he’s already wearing, briefly glancing down at the fanged eagle with a look of solemn resignation. 

“Not for much longer,” Johnny assures him, stepping aside to let him take over at the register. 

“Nice shirt, Diaz!” someone calls from line. 

“See?” Johnny says, nudging Miguel with his elbow. “Everyone loves the shirts.”

Johnny’s working the grill a few minutes later when Miguel says, “Hey, chef, there’s some guy who wants to talk to you.” 

“What?” Johnny reels around, wielding a spatula. “I actually have a permit this time if that’s what you’re–” He stops in his tracks when he sees Daniel LaRusso standing in front of the truck, looking up at him. 

“You passed the health inspection?” Daniel says. “That’s surprising.” 

“What are you doing at a high school, LaRusso?” 

“Picking up my daughter,” Daniel says, nodding back at a teenage girl who’s preoccupied staring at her phone. Miguel, meanwhile, is preoccupied staring at _her_ and has stopped taking orders. “Is this your gig these days? Selling… tacos?”

Johnny doesn’t appreciate the long pause before ‘tacos’; sounds kinda judgmental. He says, “I guess we’re both entrepreneurs now.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Daniel laughs a little, tense. “Nice to see you at Bonsai the other week.”

Johnny nods warily. 

“Did you enjoy your meal?”

“It was alright,” Johnny says stonily. 

“You didn’t happen to leave a Yelp review or anything did you?”

Daniel narrows his eyes and Johnny stares right back at him. “No. No, I didn’t, I don’t even know what Yelp or Yell or whatever that is, but– I did read an article about you. Best sushi in the valley, it said. Not bad for an Italian guy from Jersey.” 

Daniel scoffs, crossing his arms. “I studied in Okinawa. Remind me where you got your taco recipes?” 

“At least I have a real Mexican working for me,” Johnny says, thumbing at Miguel who’s still standing there staring at Daniel’s daughter. 

Miguel glances up and says, “Ecuadorian… chef.” 

“Ecuadorian?” Johnny repeats, confused. “You still eat tacos, right?” 

Miguel blinks. “Well–”

“You got him calling you chef?” Daniel says. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Johnny. This is some power trip for you, huh? Hey, kid–” He speaks directly to Miguel now, who glances rapidly between Johnny and Daniel like he’s not sure he’s even allowed to _look_ at Daniel. “This guy? Not a real chef. He’s wasting your time.”

With that, Daniel turns on his heel says, “Let’s go, Sam,” and the two head off for the parking lot. 

Johnny watches him go, anger simmering under his skin. 

“What a jerk,” Miguel says with a short, uneasy laugh and he goes back to taking orders. “Hi, sorry about that, what can we get for you?” 

At the end of the night, they’re parked back in front of the apartment. It’s late, but Miguel stays to help clean up and move the food inside; he’s a good kid like that. Johnny sorts through the tips collected during the day and pockets it. He has expenses, debt; Miguel’s getting paid and trained so he doesn’t feel bad about keeping the tips all to himself. It’s not much anyway. 

While they’re cleaning up, Miguel asks him, “That guy, LaRusso. You said you worked with him? Where was that?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Johnny says, huffing a laugh. “It was at the country club, Encino Oaks, I worked in the kitchen the summer before my senior year. Worked there the summer before too, it was my usual gig during high school. My girlfriend worked there, waitress, but we were going through a rough patch when LaRusso shows up. He’s this shrimpy little busboy, thinks he knows everything and he starts hitting on my girlfriend. I tell him, y’know, back off. Right? He gets testy with me and we… fight a little. You know, two guys, the testosterone…” He makes a gesture like butting heads, knocking his knuckles together. “You know how it is, Miguel.”

Miguel shakes his head. “No, chef.”

“Right, all you kids are pansies these days. Get in a fight, okay? A real one. That’s your assignment for the week. It’ll make you a better cook. Anyway, we tussled a little. I thought that was that, that we handled it like men, but LaRusso couldn’t learn his lesson. He kept poking at me at work. Turning up the heat on my stove if I had my back turned, hiding my knives around the kitchen. I knew it was all him.”

“What an asshole,” Miguel says. 

“Right? In the end _I_ got fired for fighting, when LaRusso started the whole thing. If he could’ve left well enough alone… So, I lose my job, he gets promoted. He’s only been there a month. _And_ he starts dating my girlfriend.” 

“Geez,” Miguel laments, shaking his head. “That sucks.” 

“Yeah,” Johnny agrees, buoyed by the sympathy. “And now he’s rubbing his success in my face. Saying _I’m_ not a real chef. I’m just trying to make a living, y’know?” 

“We’ll show him,” Miguel says confidently. 

Another week passes, and they fall into a routine. Johnny preps in the mornings and handles lunch by himself; he picks up Miguel from school, and they find a place to park for the evening. Miguel’s a fast learner; he helps prep food when it’s slow and he’s still a pussy about the burns and cuts, but Johnny told him that comes with the territory. Besides, does he want soft little baby hands forever? No, of course not! Chicks love men with rough hands. That pep talk seems to help lift his spirits each time he burns himself. When it’s slow, he works on homework or, more often, pitches marketing ideas that Johnny barely bothers to humor with a ‘yeah, uh-huh, maybe.’ 

One afternoon, after the school rush, Johnny’s driving down Ventura Boulevard, scoping out a good place to park for the evening, and Miguel’s sitting shotgun, talking his ear off about making a Twitter account to broadcast the truck’s location. 

“Sure, whatever,” Johnny says. “Make the tweeter page.” 

“It’s Twitter,” Miguel says, tapping away on his phone. “Johnny’s Tacos is available for the at.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Johnny scans the street ahead, looking for a good place to park when he sees a familiar storefront approaching on the right. Bonsai Sushi, glass windows, black awnings—and an empty stretch of curb right out front. 

“Perfect,” Johnny mutters as he slows down and pulls into the spot. 

Miguel glances at him. “Uh?” 

“We’re parking here for the night.”

“Right outside of…?” 

“Did I ask for your input, Diaz?”

“No, chef.” 

“Good, then stop staring at me and start setting up, chop chop.” 

They’ve barely started getting set up—the grill’s heating, and Miguel’s updating the chalkboard menu out front—when Daniel steps out the front door. 

“Johnny…” he says, not quite friendly but not confrontational. Dressed in his starched white uniform. “I heard we had company. What’s going on out here?”

“You got a great spot out here,” Johnny says. “Ventura Boulevard. Prime location.”

“Yeah, and you’re parked…” Daniel gestures from his front door to the truck. “Directly in front of my restaurant.”

“It’s not personal, LaRusso, just business. This is a public street, I have a right to be here.”

“Oh, it’s not personal. Yeah. I’m sure it’s not personal.” Daniel crosses the sidewalk in a few determined strides until he’s right at the window, pointing up at Johnny. “Just like you didn’t write that Yelp review.”

“That got under your skin?” Johnny asks, smirking. 

“I knew it!” Daniel throws his hands up, always the drama queen. “And who’s under whose skin here, Johnny? You’re the one showing up at my restaurant, at my daughter’s school, writing a nasty review, and now this? What did I do to you?”

“I didn’t know it was your restaurant and I didn’t know it was your daughter’s school and… this isn’t personal.” It’s two truths and a lie, but Daniel doesn’t call him on it. Johnny shoos him away with a wave of his hand. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, you’re holding up the line.” 

Daniel takes a step back, but stands there seemingly frozen and staring while Johnny turns his attention to the customers. Miguel gets to work beside him, confidently manning the grill. 

“We got a couple carnitas, a barbacoa,” Johnny says a minute later, handing them to the customers. “Help yourself to salsa, hot sauce. And tell your friends. Johnny’s tacos. We have an app, right, Miguel?”

“Not an app, a Twitter account.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Johnny thanks the customers again, and one of them stuffs a dollar into the tip jar before they walk away. Then he shoots a smug smile at Daniel who’s still lingering outside the front door, watching. 

Daniel scoffs and turns away to go back inside his restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I binged all 3 seasons of cobra kai last weekend and now here we are. Let me know what you think so far!
> 
> tumblr: [skeilig](https://skeilig.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter: [skeilig_](https://twitter.com/skeilig_)


	2. Chapter 2

“I was right!” Daniel declares as he shoves through the kitchen and into the office. “It _was_ Johnny who wrote that Yelp review!” 

Amanda glances up from the desk where she’s working on a laptop. “Who’s that again?” 

“Johnny Lawrence, we went to high school together, I worked with him at the country club when I first moved here, he kicked my ass every day for a summer, that Johnny Lawrence.” 

“Oh, right.” Amanda raises her eyebrows and returns her gaze to the computer screen. “ _That_ Johnny Lawrence. Of course.” 

“He’s got some kind of obsession with me,” Daniel says, pacing the floor in the office. “Should I call the police?” 

“For what, parking a food truck?” 

“Harassment?” Daniel suggests seriously. “I mean, first it’s a– a _homophobic_ Yelp review, now he’s–”

“Does he know that you’re gay?” Amanda asks, her tone flat. She still doesn’t look up.

Daniel runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but word travels, you know. I mean, he said the sushi tastes like dick and, well, frankly– frankly– doesn’t that mean _he_ should know? How would he know what dick tastes like?” 

Amanda lets out a long sigh and finally, slowly, lifts her gaze to look at Daniel. “As fun as it is to reassure my ex husband about Yelp reviews,” she says, “I have to get going.”

Daniel watches as she closes the laptop and starts to pack up. “You just got here.” 

“I can work on this from home,” she says, flashing a tight controlled smile. 

“Sorry,” Daniel says, suddenly hit with some self-awareness, and cringing at the memory of storming in here, ranting about Johnny and dick. He takes a step back toward the door. “I can leave you to it.” 

Amanda pauses in front of Daniel before she leaves, eyes fixed up at the ceiling while she apparently considers her words. She rests one hand on his forearm. “Daniel, I want to keep working here, I really do, but I said it would be best if we didn’t interact as much. For a while.” 

He sighs, eyes pinching closed for a regretful moment. “Amanda, I’m sorry–”

“It’s okay,” she says, patting his arm and giving him another smile before she leaves the office. 

Daniel spends most of the rest of the day in the kitchen, trying to focus on his work and trying _not_ to think about the gaudy food truck parked directly outside. It’s fine. He really doesn’t care that much. Besides, they have a good dinner for a weeknight, turning tables over at a steady pace, so for a while Daniel gets sucked into the work. 

Until Anoush, his sous-chef, returns to the kitchen and says, “Okay, the line is officially _blocking_ our door.” 

Daniel practically feels his blood pressure spike. He finishes plating a dragon roll, delicately wipes his hands off, and looks up. “I’ll go say something.” 

“Oh shit,” Louie, the resident nepotism/pity hire of the kitchen, says. “I gotta see this.” 

“No,” Daniel says quickly, holding his hands up. “Stay here. I’m not gonna make a scene.” And he doesn’t need Louie, who’s already easily distracted, abandoning several pots on the stove. 

Leaving the kitchen and walking across the dining room toward the door, Daniel tips his chin up, projecting confidence. He can see the line for the food truck and sure enough it is blocking the door by now, the line winding down the sidewalk. 

He pushes open the door and starts trying to herd the crowd away. “Hi, how’s it going,” Daniel greets the taco truck would-be customers, who stare back at him. “If you wouldn’t mind lining up more in that direction…” He holds his arms out, coaxing them back toward the street. “You’re blocking the door to my restaurant. And the entire sidewalk. Yeah, thanks,” he says as they finally start to shuffle away.

Daniel’s trying his best to not actually look up at the food truck—doesn’t want to give Johnny the satisfaction—but once he’s successfully moved the crowd away from his door, he can’t resist anymore. He glances up and locks into immediate eye contact with Johnny. 

“How’s business?” Johnny asks him, grinning as he wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow. 

“Great,” Daniel says, hands on his hips. “Really… great.” 

With that, he turns on his heel to go back inside, hearing Johnny calling out an order behind him. 

After they close that night, when Daniel’s locking up out front, he again crosses paths with Johnny and his teenage employee—who actually looks too young to be working, and he wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. They’re shutting down, securing everything inside the truck for the ride home. Daniel manages to slip away unnoticed, around the corner to his car parked in the alley. 

In the morning, he wakes up alone at his new-ish two-bedroom apartment in Sherman Oaks, having left the house to Amanda since her schedule allows her to be home with the kids every night. He likes to run in the morning, have breakfast—something simple, he keeps little food in the house anyway since he’s rarely home—and coffee before heading into the restaurant. Today he has some work to do at home—reviewing applications for the apprenticeship program and selecting some candidates to interview—so he doesn’t get to the restaurant until later in the afternoon. 

Driving down Ventura, as soon as it comes into his sight he mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Johnny’s food truck is parked there again, in the same spot, directly in front of Bonsai’s doors. 

Daniel’s relaxed, good mood immediately turns to rage. He pulls into the parking lot, into his designated spot in the back, and enters through the back door. 

In the kitchen, he finds Amanda chatting with Anoush, and before he says hello he demands, “Who let him park there?”

The two turn to him, cut off mid-conversation. Amanda’s clearly on her way out for the day, since they’ve been limited their overlapping hours at the restaurant. “What were we supposed to do?” she asks, letting out a short, exasperated laugh. “Go out and chase him away?” 

“You could’ve… parked a car out front earlier today, taken the spot.” 

“And plug the meter for hours?” 

Sure! Why not?” Daniel says. “Why can’t anyone else handle things around here?” 

“We _are_ handling things, Daniel,” Amanda says firmly. “Inside the restaurant. That doesn’t extend to the street.”

Louie, from his prep station on the other side of the kitchen, says, “I could slash his tires.” 

Daniel rounds on him to say, “What would that do exactly? Get him stuck here?” 

“Show him not to mess with us,” Louie says confidently. “He won’t come back again.” 

“No,” Amanda says, stepping in front of Daniel, probably sensing that he, for a moment, considers it. “We are not getting into a dick-measuring contest with this guy. Just ignore him and he’ll get bored and leave. If you keep letting him rile you up, he’ll keep coming back.” 

“Okay,” Daniel says, nodding. “You’re probably right.” 

Daniel really tries his best to ignore it but the problem is, after an hour or so, one of the waiters comes into the kitchen to report that ‘the taco guy’ out front has started offering would-be Bonsai customers buy-one-get-one tacos if they don’t go in. 

“What?” Daniel says, tightening the grip on his chef’s knife. 

“Want me to slash his tires, boss?” 

“No, Louie, no– What exactly did he say?”

The waiter, a college student at UCLA who works here part-time, explains that when she was walking in the door the guy in the truck called out to her and said hey, instead of eating that garbage, want a free taco? And she said, “No, I… work here.” And he scoffed and waved her off. 

“That’s it,” Daniel says, placing his knife down firmly on the table. “I’m not gonna let him get away with this.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re gonna let Louie slash his tires,” Anoush says. 

“No, no one’s slashing tires. But I have a plan.”

The next day, Daniel gets to Bonsai earlier, well before they open for lunch, and starts re-arranging the small strip of patio space they have out front. He drags some of the tables and chairs inside to make room for a gas grill, facing out toward the sidewalk. He’s setting up a sandwich board to advertise the offerings when Amanda shows up for the opening shift. 

“What’s… going on out here?” she asks cautiously, watching as Daniel writes on the board. “Fish tacos? Daniel.”

“I’m gonna beat him at his own game.”

“This is the exact opposite of what I told you to do.” 

“He was harassing my staff yesterday!” Daniel protests. “Actively trying to poach customers, offering deals if they wouldn’t come in. So… why not hit back?” 

“You’re playing right into his–” She stops suddenly, fingers going to her temples as she takes in a deep breath. “Okay, whatever. I’m not involved, not getting involved…” 

With that, she goes inside and Daniel doesn’t see her for the rest of the day. 

No matter. He pulls some staff from the kitchen to help him outside and lunch goes well. Grilled tuna tacos, Japanese-style, served on warm tortillas. It’s simple, fresh, easy. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t understand the appeal of this kind of operation. 

But the main event, of course, comes in the late afternoon when the obnoxious, racing-flamed taco truck comes barreling down Ventura. Same as the two days prior, Johnny parks the truck in an open spot in front of the restaurant. This time, however, as he pulls into the spot his eyes are locked on Daniel and he doesn’t look quite so smug anymore. 

Johnny hops out of the truck and approaches Daniel, where he’s standing behind the grill. “You’re selling tacos now? At your Japanese restaurant?” 

“You don’t own the concept of tacos, Johnny,” Daniel says. “This is a Japanese fusion anyway… Grilled tuna, sesame slaw, wasabi mayo.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Japanese fusion. That makes sense.” Johnny gestures back at his teen employee who’s starting to get set up behind him. “Miguel said you’re a weeb.” 

Miguel’s head snaps up at his mention. 

“I’m a what?” Daniel says, already bristling, even though he has no idea what it means. 

Johnny glances to Miguel for backup. “Am I saying that right? What’d you say before?” 

Miguel shakes his head, eyes wide, clearly opting to play dumb. “I didn’t say anything, chef.” 

Johnny spends a second arguing with Miguel, trying to get him to elaborate on what this particular insult means and Miguel keeps insisting he never said it—until he’s interrupted by a lady on the street.

“Are you in line?” she asks, gesturing to Daniel’s sidewalk operation. 

“For tuna tacos?” Johnny asks, sneering. “No, gross.” 

“You’re holding up the line,” Daniel says, waving him off, satisfied by the role reversal from two days ago. 

Johnny stalks off back to his truck and helps Miguel get set up to open. 

The afternoon goes on like that, both of them snagging customers walking by. Often, a group of people will split, some going to Johnny’s truck and some going to Daniel’s, which is unsatisfying. Daniel watches a couple get an order of fish and an order of carnitas and share them. That seems like cheating. 

Johnny starts offering a buy-one-get-one deal again which forces Daniel to one-up him by lowering his own prices, and soon neither of them are breaking even. But it’s not about the money, Daniel explains to a skeptical Anoush, when he pokes his head outside. It’s about the principle of the thing. He can’t let Johnny get away with this. 

The afternoon’s turning into evening when Daniel’s other restaurant rival, who he had all but forgotten about with this new more immediate distraction, wanders by. Tom Cole, the owner of a popular seafood place half a mile down the road from Bonsai, has been a long-time frenemy, mostly due to the fact that when Daniel opened his place, Tom suddenly began serving Japanese items on his menu that was previously dominated by lobster, surf-n-turf and the like. Tom always maintained it was a coincidence, or merely following the culinary trends, but Daniel’s not an idiot. He knows they’re competitors.

“I heard there was a standoff, had to come see for myself,” Tom greets him, strolling up the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his khakis. 

“Just some friendly competition, you know how it is, Tom,” Daniel says, voice brimming with fake cheeriness. He hears Johnny bark a laugh at his response but he doesn’t look up. 

“This is a good direction for you,” Tom says. “Street food. Give me a couple tacos, will you?” He fishes into his wallet for some cash, and Daniel, reluctantly, serves him. 

After he gets his food, Tom crosses the sidewalk to buy something from Johnny, too. They talk for a while, but Daniel can’t hear what they’re saying, as much as he strains his ears. Then, walking away, Tom takes one bite from each before dumping the rest unceremoniously in a trash can. 

Across the sidewalk, Johnny makes eye contact with Daniel, and says, “Who’s that asshole? Friend of yours?”

“Not a friend,” Daniel says quickly, insulted. 

“Good,” Johnny says with a half-smile before he gets back to work.

Samantha used to be more interested in the restaurant. She liked to hang around in the kitchen, ‘helping out,’ and she loved to taste test things and at eleven years old she was proud to have a sushi roll named in her honor on the menu. Now that she’s in high school, and perhaps now that she has a better understanding of the demands of the job, she’s not quite as interested. (Anthony never showed any interest at all—he’s a picky eater—but to his credit, at least he didn’t set up his dad for disappointment.) That being said, Daniel knows he can’t push this. 

The kids are still frequent visitors to the restaurant anyway, and they eat here every Friday night when Amanda drops them off for a weekend with dad. Today she does so, bringing them with overnight bags packed and then leaving without another comment about the taco rivalry happening outside. 

Daniel leaves his capable cook outside to handle things for a while and goes inside to eat dinner with his kids. 

“That’s the guy who was at the high school the other day, right?” Sam asks when they sit down. “Is he a… friend of yours?” 

Sam and Daniel have a bowl of soba each, but Anthony has some orange chicken (which is not a Bonsai menu item but they keep a bag in the freezer just for him) and white rice. Daniel hesitates, looking at his daughter. “Did your mom ask you to talk to me about this?” 

“No!” she says, too quickly to be convincing. After a beat she breaks into giggles. “Okay, yeah, she asked me to bring it up ‘casually.’”

Daniel smiles. “Very casual.” He lifts his bowl to drink some of the broth, contemplating. “Well, he’s not my friend. For the record. We worked together for a summer in high school and if I learned anything from that, it doesn’t work to not fight back. He won’t leave me alone unless I give him a reason to be afraid.” 

From the look on Sam’s face, he realizes that may have sounded a little too intense, so he immediately backtracks: “I mean– make it inconvenient for him to pick fights with me. You know? He can’t have endless money to burn, right? If I’m out there everyday taking half his customers– that’s eventually gonna bleed him dry, right?” 

“Okay,” Sam says with a little smile. She picks up a thin slice of fishcake with her chopsticks to eat. 

“So you can tell your mother that,” Daniel says. “Prove you did your job, got the intel.” 

“Thanks,” she says, grinning wider. 

After a moment of quiet eating, Daniel says, “Hey, do you know what a– a ‘weeb’ is?” 

Anthony falls into a fit of laughter, so obnoxiously loud that it draws attention from the tables next to them. 

“Shh!” Sam hisses fiercely, elbowing her little brother as her acute teenage sense of embarrassment spurs her into immediate action. “It’s, uh– what do you mean, dad?” 

“I just… heard it, I was wondering what… it means.” 

“You can’t google things for yourself?” she asks, exasperated. 

“Is it that bad?” 

“No, it’s…” She sighs heavily. “It’s like… a white person who’s obsessed with anime, or like, Japanese stuff.” 

Daniel bristles, immediately defensive. “I have great respect for Japanese culture, obviously. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know,” she says, clearly trying to end the conversation. “It’s fine.” 

The apprenticeship program was something that Daniel wanted to start for a long time and is now finally in the position to be able to devote some time and resources to it. He wouldn’t be where he is today without his mentor, Mr. Miyagi, the handyman/groundskeeper of the apartment development where he and his mom lived in Reseda. Daniel used to hang around watching him trim his bonsai trees and eating his food until he finally relented and started teaching Daniel a thing or two. 

This is the story that Daniel tells to the group of candidates he brings in over the weekend, to interview and show around the kitchen. He meets with four of them, so he tells the story four times—how he developed his love for food and specifically Okinawan food—seeming to fall deeper into the reminiscing each time.

“Okinawan cuisine is actually really unique and different from what you find on the mainland,” Daniel is saying to the final candidate of the day. She’s a quiet but attentive recent high school graduate named Hannah, hoping to work for a while and considering culinary school. Daniel always relishes the opportunity to dump some information on fresh ears; everybody else in his life has heard his spiel a thousand times. “We serve sushi and other things that are more familiar to Americans—that helps get people in the door—but it’s really important to me to keep the Okinawan influence on the menu and bring these dishes to people who have never had them before. To expand people’s concept of Japanese food, right?”

Hannah nods thoughtfully, and Daniel encourages her to try a bite of Rafute, pork belly slow simmered in soy sauce and brown sugar until the fat melts in your mouth. 

“There’s actually not a lot of fish in traditional Okinawan cuisine,” Daniel tells her while she reacts to the first bite. “But pork is king. Good, right?”

When Hannah leaves, Daniel’s got nothing left to do but make the difficult choice about who to hire for the year-long position. He goes to the back office to look over resumes, references, the notes he took during the interviews. He’s barely started when there’s a knock at his door. 

“Daniel?” It’s one of the hosts, nudging the door open. “There’s someone here to see you.” 

Daniel glances up to see a young man with long blond hair lingering in the half-open door. It’s not often that he gets random visitors stopping by so he stares for a second, trying to determine whether he recognizes the kid. He takes a couple steps into the office, offers a handshake and says, “Hi, Mr. LaRusso?” 

Daniel takes his hand and notes the confident grip. “Call me Daniel. What brings you in?”

He’s still not entirely sure if he’s supposed to know this kid, so he splits the difference, hoping he’ll remind him soon enough. 

“My name’s Robby Keene,” he says, “and I was hoping I could apply for the apprenticeship program.” 

“Oh.” Daniel takes in an awkward breath and gestures for Robby to sit in the chair across from him as he sinks down in his own. “The application period is over, I’m afraid.” 

His face falls by a degree. “I know I’m late but I was hoping you’d consider me for it. Here, I brought…” Robby digs into his backpack for a moment and hands Daniel a high school transcript, a brief resume with a list of references. 

“Oh, uh…” Daniel flips through the pages. Good grades. Same high school that he went to. 

“Or a job in the kitchen,” Robby bargains, sounding a little desperate. “Really, anything you have.” 

Daniel smiles and looks up. “Where are you from, Robby?” 

“My mom and I live in Reseda,” he says slowly, seeming caught off guard by the line of questioning. 

“Just you and your mom?”

“Yeah, it’s just the two of us.” 

Daniel nods, thinking for a moment, taking in the kid’s energy, a mix of nervous and confident. Then he says, “Do you want to help me with something?”

“This is one of the most iconic Okinawan dishes, Goya Champuru,” Daniel explains to Robby. They’re tucked away in one corner of the kitchen, a work station out of the way of the action. “It’s a stir fry made with bitter melon, tofu and Spam.” 

Daniel picks up a can of ham product and sets it down on the cutting board in front of Robby. 

Robby raises his eyebrows. “Spam? I thought this was, like… a fancy restaurant.” As soon as he says it he tries to backpedal, but Daniel just laughs.

“We don’t care about ‘fancy’ here,” he says. “Only what tastes good. This dish can be made with pork belly, but I was always taught with Spam.” Daniel grins. “Spam is very popular in Okinawa, you know. The American soldiers in World War II brought Spam as rations and ever since it’s been a part of local dishes in places in the Pacific that were occupied, like Hawaii and Okinawa and the Philippines.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Robby says, genuinely, and Daniel feels a rush of pride. He turns his attention to the other ingredients on the cutting board. “What is _that?_ ” he asks, pointing at the bitter melon, long and bright green and lumpy. 

“This is really special,” Daniel says. “Goya, or bitter melon. Very good for you, lots of nutrients. It’s… an acquired taste, maybe. But I love it now.” 

Robby gives him a skeptical look but doesn’t say anything else as they get to work. Daniel directs him through draining the block of firm tofu, seeding and slicing the bitter melon into thin green half-moons, cutting the Spam into long thin blocks; then through crumbling and browning the tofu in large chunks on a hot pan, searing the Spam until it takes on some color, cooking everything together with some scrambled egg and a little soy sauce. Robby takes instruction well, but he does not seem all that self-assured yet, timidly stirring the pan until Daniel shows him how to toss everything together—“It’s all in the wrist.”—and he starts to get the hang of it. 

They eat together, in a booth in the restaurant; it’s halfway between lunch and dinner and quiet out here. Robby tries a piece of the tofu, tentative at first, but is pleasantly surprised; he ends up cleaning his plate. Over the meal, Daniel asks him some more questions, gets him talking a little about why he wants this.

Daniel’s trying to sort out how much of it is personal—he sees himself in Robby, his background and personality—and stay objective, but when it comes down to it: he already likes the kid. He wants to hire him. If he could find a kid who seemed like they needed this, that was always his top priority, the reason he wanted to do this in the first place. To help someone. 

So he tells Robby as much. “Maybe by now you’ve picked up on the fact that this is a job interview,” he says, when they’ve both finished eating. 

“How am I doing?” Robby asks with a nervous smile. 

“Not bad,” Daniel says, chuckling. “I probably shouldn’t say anything definitive right now but I’ll… call you.”

Robby’s smile grows more relaxed. “Thanks Mr. LaRu— Daniel,” he corrects. Then he leans forward, nodding toward the window across from where they sit, looking out onto the street. “What’s the deal with this guy?”

Daniel turns around to look and—he’s not surprised. There’s the taco truck again, just pulling up outside to get set up ahead of dinner. Johnny parks and gets out, dressed in jeans and that bright red t-shirt with the eagle logo, a white headband on today, probably to catch the sweat on his brow. Looks kind of stupid, like he’s stuck in an eighties music video. 

The simmering contempt must be apparent on his face because Robby says, “You don’t seem happy to see him.” 

Daniel laughs and looks away, back to Robby. “There are always rivalries in this business. Some worse than others. I’ll leave it at that.”

Robby smiles and nods, seeming to understand. They finish up and Daniel lets him out through the back door, promising to reach out to him soon—and making sure he knows that it’s basically a done deal. Daniel’s found his student. 

Bonsai does not typically serve housemade soba noodles; soba is not the specialty dish, and with a broad and varied menu it’s hard to justify pouring that much effort and expertise into one ingredient. However, Daniel has long had a great appreciation for the art of making soba, and it was one of the things that Mr. Miyagi trained him to do early on. It’s a mental exercise as much as anything, learning patience and how to utilize one’s senses in the kitchen. Daniel, at age sixteen, found it incredibly frustrating. 

So, when Robby officially begins his apprenticeship the following week, this is where they start. 

They meet at Bonsai early in the morning, hours before they open, before anyone else is here, and—critically—before the temperature of the kitchen gets warm enough to interfere with the dough. 

“We are using one-hundred percent buckwheat flour,” Daniel explains once the work station is set up: an expansive tabletop, plenty of space to work, rolling pins, the buckwheat and water pre-measured in bowls. “This is very delicate because there’s no gluten to hold the dough together. Once we start making and rolling the dough we have to get it done within twenty minutes and keep moving otherwise the dough will break and it can’t be repaired.”

Robby nods. He seems tired, which makes sense. It’s barely after seven a.m., and he turned down the coffee Daniel offered to him, said he doesn’t like coffee. 

Daniel gets the first batch started, showing Robby how to mix the dough with his hands and incorporate the water until it forms little pellets. 

“My mentor when I was your age, Mr. Miyagi, told me to close my eyes when mixing the dough,” Daniel says with a smile, watching as Robby takes over. “He always told me, your eyes can only see one dimension but your fingers can see ten dimensions.” 

Robby hesitantly closes his eyes and keeps going. When the dough starts to come together into one smooth mound, Daniel shows him how to knead it—not for too long, it’s a delicate process—and then he dusts the wood surface of the workbench with buckwheat flour and it’s time to roll the dough. 

This is where things start to get tricky. First, Robby flattens the dough into a circle with the palms of his hands before Daniel hands him a long rolling pin. He starts working and every time he slows down and looks to Daniel expectantly, Daniel has to tell him he’s not done yet. “Thinner. A lot thinner.” 

A crack begins to form at the edge of the dough and Robby watches it nervously as it continues to spread. “It’s ripping,” Robby mutters. He rolls over the crack and it seems to smush back together for a moment—only to reform as soon as he rolls again. Before long it reaches a third of the way across the sheet of dough. Robby’s forehead beads with sweat and he chews at his lower lip. “Shit.” 

“It’s okay,” Daniel tells him. “Seriously. If you got this perfect on your first try I would… probably have to fire you because I’d have nothing to teach you. You took too long with rolling it out so the dough started to break. You’ll do this again every day and you’ll get better and faster.” 

Robby nods solemnly. “What do we do with this?” 

“Shorter noodles are still good. We might not serve them but… they’ll work for staff lunch.” Daniel takes over the rolling for a bit, quickly getting the dough into a large thin square. He begins to fold it over itself, dusting the dough so it won’t stick, to prepare to cut the noodles. “And don’t be too hard on yourself,” Daniel says. “Mr. Miyagi told me it takes ten years of training to be a master of soba.” 

He rolls his eyes a little as he says this, and Robby laughs. “Oh, so I’ve got a ways to go.” 

Daniel hands him a large flat-edged knife to start cutting the noodles. “You’re making progress already.” 

Robby makes fresh soba every morning, arriving hours before the rest of the staff, enough time for him to make a few batches in a row, really get the muscle memory of it down. Daniel shifts his own schedule earlier, so he can work with him one-on-one before opening for lunch. An added bonus is that it takes Daniel’s mind off of the food truck rivalry for a while; these days, he’s heading home shortly after Johnny parks and opens for the evening. Limiting their interactions is probably for the best. Amanda certainly seems to think so. 

Besides, there’s something unbecoming about engaging in this kind of thing when he’s past fifty. This is how kids handle their problems, always hitting back and escalating. But there’s something about Johnny who brings those impulses out in him.

One afternoon when Daniel’s leaving, Johnny catches him and calls as he passes on the sidewalk, “Hey, LaRusso, what happened to the fish tacos?” 

Daniel turns to face him, giving him a pleasant but passive-aggressive smile. “Yeah, I’ve been busy. I have a student now, don’t really have time for games. I hope business is going well for you.”

With that, he hops into his Audi parked just around the corner and drives home. The look of speechless offense on Johnny’s face plays in his head for the rest of the night. Maybe Amanda was right about this, too; if Daniel doesn’t give him the time of day, surely that will become too humiliating to bear, even for Johnny. 

In the middle of his second week, Robby gets the dough rolled out incident-free—but he’s so nervously elated by this accomplishment that he immediately screws up cutting the noodles. They’re all uneven widths, too wide and too thin. 

“It’s okay,” Daniel reassures him, when he drops his head to the counter and groans in frustration. “Staff lunch.”

“I think everyone’s sick of soba,” Robby says. He stands back up and stretches his arms; they must be sore from the repetitive motion, but he’s getting stronger already. “They keep giving me dirty looks.” 

“Well, they can take that up with me,” Daniel says, patting Robby’s back which earns a small smile. 

In addition to the noodles, Robby’s spending his days tending to the dashi and pork stock as well, and has at this point taken over the reins from Louie. Daniel figures their skill levels are similar, if there’s a difference in experience. A combination of dashi and pork stock comprises the broth for the Okinawa soba, dashi is a base for a ton of dishes in a Japanese kitchen, and the meaty pork stock goes into ramen. 

So, each morning, Robby makes the soba noodles while the kitchen is cool and dry and then he starts the stocks. Daniel supplements each day with some kind of special lesson, whether it’s carving fish or making perfect rice. 

It’s going well; Robby’s becoming a valuable part of the team, but still getting his training, and Daniel has time to focus on running the restaurant in between checking in on his student. 

One such day, he goes to check in, but Robby’s not in the kitchen. His pots of stocks are abandoned, the flame turned off, no longer bubbling but still steaming; not left off the heat for too long, then. 

“Anyone seen Robby?” Daniel asks his kitchen staff. Someone says yeah, he went out the back door five minutes ago, so that’s where he goes.

He finds Robby leaning against the wall in the alley and he turns away as soon as he sees Daniel, as if he can hide by not looking at him. 

“Hey, Robby,” Daniel greets him cautiously, leaning against the wall next to him, but keeping enough space to not spook him. “What’s going on out here?”

“The stock,” Robby says. “I got distracted with the rice for longer than I thought and the heat was too high so it reduced too much and now it’s– _way_ too salty.” He slumps back flat against the wall, letting his head fall to the brick. “And it’s the only pot we have and there’s not enough time to make more, and– that’s like, _half_ the menu.” 

“Okay, slow down,” Daniel says. “Did you– you salted it before you reduced it?” 

Robby’s head snaps to look at him. Daniel realizes belatedly that that was not the most reassuring thing he could’ve said, but, in his defense, he told Robby to salt last, to taste. You can always add more salt, but you can’t take it away. 

“I always used the same amount,” Robby argues. “I thought I could– speed things up.” 

Daniel just raises his eyebrows, a nonverbal, _well, how’d that go?_

Robby leans back against the wall, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. You just put me in charge of this and I already messed it up.”

“Hey, it’s not a big deal,” Daniel assures him. “Miyagi always told me, a mistake is an opportunity to learn. It’s a gift.” 

Robby peeks out from behind his hands to say, “That’s kinda corny.” 

Daniel laughs. “Sure, a little, but think of it this way. This way you feel right now? Embarrassed, upset? You’re not gonna forget it. _This_ ,” he gestures to Robby, the alleyway, “is going to burn into your memory. You will never salt before reducing ever again.” 

They do fix the stock, the best they can. It tastes briney, like saltwater, worse than Daniel expected, but he adds water. “It’s all about balance,” Daniel says sagely, having perhaps too much fun slipping into the mentor role. Adding water, however, dilutes the overall flavor of the broth as well. Robby grimaces when Daniel points this out; the broth is salvageable but it’s not going to be perfect. Maybe they’ll have to overload the bowls of ramen with toppings today to distract customers from the watery broth. They do have enough time to get started on a new pot for dinner, which is going to leave them with an excess of cooked pork rib, but that’s fine. Daniel can put that on special. This is what running a restaurant is all about.

That kind of problem-solving is enjoyable; he’s always found it exhilarating and rewarding. But today his focus is broken when Amanda and Anoush approach him and ask to speak in the office. 

Daniel puts his pork rib scheme on hold to go meet them in the back where Anoush promptly if apologetically announces that he’ll be leaving his position as Bonsai’s sous chef at the end of the week. 

“And the end of the _week?_ ” Daniel repeats, not shouting, but he has a loud sharp bark of a voice when he’s angry and not careful about it, so he’s sure all the line cooks heard that one. “Wait, how long have you known about this?” he asks Amanda, deftly switching the target of his betrayal.

“Just since last week,” she says calmly—and her calmness never really helped things between them. Balance is important and all, but Daniel sometimes needs to bounce off of someone else’s hard edges rather than have his feelings muffled with softness. “I’ve already been looking for a replacement and I have some interviews lined up for this week–”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I’m the kitchen manager so it’s my job to handle staffing and you, Daniel, really–” Amanda pauses and does some sort of thoughtful, meditative, inhale-exhale thing. “You’ve been all over the place recently. And busy enough with Robby, I thought I could keep this off your plate for a little while–”

“Keep me in the dark,” Daniel scoffs, then looks back to Anoush who seems to be trying to escape, slinking back toward the office door. “And you– who are you leaving us for?”

He stares back guiltily for a long moment before he says, “Del Mar.”

“No.” Daniel shakes his head. “You’re shitting me.”

“I am not,” Anoush says reluctantly, his hand on the doorknob, still slowly trying to flee. 

“You’re going to work for _Tom Cole?_ ”

“He offered me a higher salary,” Anoush says. “I’m sorry, Daniel. It’s not personal.”

“Maybe it’s not personal to you, but it is definitely personal to _Tom Cole_ , and it feels pretty fucking personal to me–” Daniel puts his hands up as if interrupting himself and adds, “Hey, hey, if it’s just about the money– how much is he paying you?”

“We can’t even match it,” Amanda says. “Trust me, I’m in our books everyday. This is the best choice for Anoush and I’m happy for him and wish him the best and we’ll find someone else.”

That seems to settle it. Daniel apologizes for snapping, thanks Anoush for his years of work and wishes him luck on his new venture—through gritted teeth, maybe, but he does it. 

The rest of the day only gets worse. Louie calls out sick which probably means he’s hungover and no one can cover so Daniel steps up, staying for the dinner and closing shift. It’s not uncommon that he works insane hours at the restaurant, but he was up so early this morning and he’s still pissed about Anoush, so. It’s an exceptionally long night. It seems like everyone keeps making stupid mistakes, too, which doesn’t help his irritation. 

He sends Robby home just before dinner starts, honestly just to get him out of his hair. He likes Robby and if he sticks around for the rest of the night—which he offers to since they are short-staffed—he knows he’s going to end up biting his head off over some small mistake and he’d rather not subject him to that only a couple weeks into their working relationship. Good instincts on his part because when a waitress named Kelly comes in to pester him for the third time about the short rib special, she adds, “That taco guy is selling fish tacos now,” and Daniel snaps at her, says, “Only tell me about things that are going on _inside_ the restaurant, thanks.” She nods, mutters a quick, “Yes, chef,” and scurries out of the kitchen. 

It’s a relief when they finally close and start cleaning up. Daniel stays to the bitter end, as he does on most nights—but it has been a while since he was the first one in, last one out. That was, what—he counts on his fingers—fifteen hours? He’s too old for this. It would almost be nostalgic if he weren’t so damn tired. 

He locks up and heads down the sidewalk, past the taco truck, which has become this omnipresent stain on his psyche—a little dramatic maybe, but it feels that way, leering in the windows, blocking the view out onto the street. People have started to think that the taco truck is affiliated with Bonsai, given the fact it’s parked there every single day. Daniel’s always smiled tightly and said, no, no affiliation there. 

Now, Johnny’s leaning against the counter inside the truck and counting out the jar of tips, splitting it into two separate, even piles. Miguel’s working inside the truck next to him, wiping down the grill and getting everything stowed away for the drive. 

“Hey, LaRusso,” Johnny says to Daniel as he passes. “Late night. Haven’t seen you much recently.” 

“Yeah, we were short-staffed,” Daniel says, then wonders why he even bothered to explain. 

“Oh, that’s rough. Looked like a busy night, too.” 

Daniel waves at him over his shoulder as he keeps trudging past, toward his car. “Goodnight, Johnny.” 

He slides into the front seat of his Audi, turns the key, and all he gets in response is an empty _click-click-click_ as the engine refuses to turn over. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, trying again. And again. 

Daniel’s always taken good care of his cars and he’s rarely had trouble with them. Is it possible that he…? He checks and, sure enough. Goddamn it. Left his lights on. Stupid, careless. 

And on top of everything, not what he needs tonight. 

He has jumper cables in the trunk but there’s no one else around at this point in the night. Well, no one except…

Daniel takes a deep, steadying breath and gets out of his car. 

The truck hasn’t left yet, but they’re about to, all packed up, Miguel climbing up and into the passenger seat. 

“Hey!” Daniel calls, jogging to catch up. 

Johnny flips the headlights on at that moment which seems to purposefully maximize the humiliation of this. Daniel meets them at the open passenger door, Miguel and Johnny looking down at him expectantly. 

“My battery’s dead,” Daniel says before he loses his nerve. “Could you give me a jump? I’m parked just around back.” 

Johnny’s mouth slowly curls into a smile—the type of smile that already has Daniel regretting this. “Sure. I’ll meet you over there.”

“An Audi getting a jump from a food truck,” Johnny says minutes later, standing there and watching unhelpfully while Daniel roots around under the hood. At least Miguel is holding a flashlight. “Now I’ve seen everything.” 

But once all the cables are connected, and as Daniel should’ve seen coming because nothing can go right for him today, it doesn’t work. His car still won’t start. 

“Are you sure it’s the battery?” Johnny asks, hovering too close to him, trying to peer in over his shoulder while Daniel looks under the hood. 

Daniel shoves back against him, knocking into the solid plane of his chest. “It must be the battery. If you’re not gonna help just take a step back.” 

Johnny does take a step back and glances to his student. “Should get you home, huh?” Miguel nods, says something about school in the morning. “LaRusso, I gotta take Miguel home. I could drop you off somewhere on the way.”

“I can’t leave my car here all night, I’m gonna have to… I dunno, get it towed.” He keeps puttering around under the hood, his hands turning gray with oil. 

In the end, they get an Uber for Miguel, but Johnny stays there, lingering, unhelpful as always, while Daniel tries the same few things over and over again. He’s going to have to call Triple A. 

“I’m going to have to call Triple A,” he announces. 

“Do you want a beer?” Johnny asks, nodding back toward his truck. “Or a ride home? Or both?” 

Daniel pauses dialing the number to stare at him. “You have a liquor license?” 

“What? No, these are just for me.” Johnny ducks back into the truck and emerges with two bottles of Coors Banquet. Daniel doesn’t know what he expected.

“Oh that’s great,” Daniel mutters, putting the phone to his ear. He takes one of the beers though, once Johnny flips the cap off. “Drinking while you’re serving food _and_ operating a motor vehicle. Yeah, hi, my car’s dead–”

Daniel downs most of the Coors by the time Triple A arrives, and Johnny outpaces him, whether due to competitive urge or simply more practice, so he’s on his second. They tow Daniel’s car away and then it’s just the two of them, in a deserted parking lot off Ventura, late on a Wednesday night. 

“So, ride home?” Johnny asks. He tips the rest of his second beer back and sighs after swallowing like he’s in a commercial or something. _Ahh, refreshing._

“How many of those have you had?” Daniel asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Oh come on, Danielle,” Johnny says, “I can handle my booze better than that. You think a few Coors are gonna knock me off my ass?” 

“How many Coors, Johnny?” 

“Oh, you know… A few.” 

Daniel crosses his arms, smiling in spite himself. “A few. Uh huh.” 

“I’m good,” Johnny insists, climbing up into the driver’s seat. “I’m fine.”

Daniel directs him back toward his apartment, which is not far, but far enough to start talking. 

“I heard you added fish tacos to the menu,” Daniel says neutrally and Johnny groans.

“I’m doing you a favor and you’re busting my balls about the taco thing.” 

“You’ve been sabotaging my business for _weeks_ ,” Daniel protests, twisting in his seat to face him. “One ride home doesn’t make us even.” 

“I’m not ‘sabotaging’ your business,” Johnny says, rolling his eyes. “Have I even put a dent in your profit? Seriously?”

“No, but you’re always–” Daniel waves his hands around, trying to formulate the thought. “Buzzing around, like a fly. It’s annoying.” 

Johnny looks briefly triumphant, which was the opposite affect Daniel was hoping to have. “I am _so_ under your skin.” 

“Yeah, well, congrats,” Daniel says flatly. “If that was your goal. All for some thirty-year-old grudge you can’t let die? That’s great, Johnny, you should be really proud of yourself.” 

“I am,” Johnny says. “Business has been good. I’m making money and ticking you off, all at the same time. Is this you?”

He’s pulling up out front of the address Daniel gave him, a three-story apartment building, bland concrete facade. 

“Yeah, this is me. Well, it’s been a joy as always–”

“You live _here?_ ” 

Johnny sounds and looks so thrown off that it throws Daniel off, too. He glances at his apartment then back to Johnny. “Yeah, why? Something tells me you’re not living in the Hills anymore so you better not–”

“No, no, I just…” Johnny shrugs. “When I saw you with your daughter, I pictured you in some big suburban house with a pool. You know.” 

He gets a little quiet after he says it, turns forward to stare out the windshield. He pulls absently at the short blond beard at his chin. 

Something about it propels Daniel to honesty, maybe even vulnerability. “I’m… divorced.” 

He holds up his ring-free hand, not that he expected Johnny to notice. He never wore it in the kitchen anyway. Maybe there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. 

“My ex still works in the restaurant,” Daniel says suddenly. “Is that weird? We get along alright.” 

“That’s good,” Johnny says sincerely. “My ex wants to kill me, I think.” 

Daniel laughs, a single sharp bark and Johnny smiles. “You were married?”

“No, but we have a kid.” 

Daniel nods, thinking for a moment, still not getting out the truck. The engine idles. Then something in him says ‘fuck it’ and he says in a rush of words, “So you thought I was still married? That’s kind of a relief because a part of me thought that that Yelp review was… targeted.” 

The wheels seem to turn in Johnny’s head; he has one of those faces that _moves_ when he thinks. It’s amusing; almost endearing. Then he says, “What? No, like… It was just a joke. Do you mean that…?” He trails off, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Daniel says. “If I’m being honest, that was the bigger reason for the divorce, but I like to say it’s because I was married to my work.” 

There’s a long, long pause, during which time Daniel nearly does leave the car—his hand is on the door handle—but then Johnny says, “I can’t believe you’re gay and you still stole my girlfriend.” 

And that effectively breaks whatever tension remained. First, a laugh escapes Daniel’s throat, unbidden, but he quickly gets that under control to yell at him. “I did not ‘steal’ Ali, you were already _broken up_ , and I can’t believe you’re still moping about this!” 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Johnny says, laughing.“I’m not _moping_.” He reaches to pull the key from the ignition, which signals to Daniel that he’s not being rushed to leave any time soon. “So you have a student now? Some grift. Do you even pay him?” 

“Do I–? Yes, I pay him. Look who’s talking, anyway,” Daniel says, remembering Johnny’s braces-wearing teen employee, who had to leave for ‘school in the morning.’

“Hey, I’m teaching Miguel, too,” Johnny says. “And he’s good. He helped me make this special sauce for the fish tacos– hey, you wanna try it?”

Daniel considers for a moment. It’s late but he is hungry, as he realizes all at once. Hasn’t eaten since lunch, what with all the chaos. “Sure. I mean, fair’s fair. You tried my food. Maybe now I can leave you a review.”

“You really aren’t gonna let this review thing go, are ya?” 

They climb between the seats into the back of the food truck, where Johnny pops the ceiling vent and gets the gas stove going. He retrieves the ingredients from the fridge and another beer for each of them. Daniel leans against the counter watching while Johnny grills two thin strips of cod, achieving perfect char marks on each side. He nestles each piece of fish into a bed of pico de gallo, wrapped in small warm corn tortillas, then it’s secret sauce time. He squeezes the creamy, pinkish stuff from a bottle, in a zig zag on top of each taco, then finishes it with a pinch of chopped cilantro. 

It looks good. Daniel nods his thanks as he’s handed his taco and he takes a bite. Everything combines really nicely: the textures of the soft tortilla and flaky fish with crisp edges, and the _snap_ of the onions and the creamy sauce; the temperature contrast of the cold refreshing salsa and the hot, fresh-off-the-grill fish; the acid from a squeeze of lime and the spice from the jalapeño, the bitterness of the light char and the slight sweetness of the sauce. It’s… really good. 

And Daniel’s maybe too worn down or fond or something to try to hide it. “This is delicious,” he says between bites and Johnny grins. “What’s the sauce?” he asks as he finishes it, licking off the tips of his fingers. 

“That’s a secret,” Johnny says. “Me and Miguel were just mixing shit together, eventually found something pretty good.” 

Daniel snorts. “Is that how you do all your cooking? Trial and error?”

“Some of it. But I learned the fundamentals same as you.” 

He seems defensive and it leaves Daniel feeling vaguely guilty, so he says, “You’re good, really. Which I didn’t expect given the… stalking me in a food truck situation, but…” 

“You love to make it all about you, huh.” 

Daniel’s sitting up on the counter now, across from Johnny and he leans forward. “It’s gotta be a little bit about me. Come on. You’ve been parking outside Bonsai for two weeks.” 

“Okay, okay.” Johnny tips his beer back, his throat bobbing as he swallows. If Daniel’s eyes fix on the motion that’s his business. “Maybe I– I saw what you had, your own restaurant, and it made me think, well. If LaRusso can do it, why can’t I? Except all I can afford is this lousy food truck. Had to sell my Firebird to buy this.” 

Several questions and comments swirl in Daniel’s mind but the one that comes immediately to the forefront is, “You’ve been driving that car for thirty years? No way.” 

“Well, not anymore!” Johnny protests, laughing. “This is my only vehicle now. I drive this to the grocery store, to the– to the bar. I’m getting really good at parallel parking this thing. Yeah, yeah, yuck it up, LaRusso.” 

Daniel is laughing pretty hard, at the thought of Johnny driving this vehicle around town as his primary mode of transportation. He’s finished his beer and Johnny hands him another one before he asks for it. They both slide down onto the floor, leaning against the back doors of the truck, side by side. 

“Restaurant business is _tough_ ,” Daniel says a time later, after more drinking and chatting. “You’d have to be crazy to willingly go into it.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Johnny mutters, tipping his bottle of Coors to clink against Daniel’s. 

“My sous chef is leaving to work for this asshole–” Daniel turns toward Johnny now, realizing that he might _remember_ this particular asshole. “That guy who came by and tossed our food in the trash. You remember him? He owns Del Mar, the seafood place?”

“Oh, that asshole, yes I remember him,” Johnny says. “Your sous chef left you for him? What a dick.” 

He seems genuinely sympathetic, in the exact way Daniel didn’t realize he needed. Johnny seems to value loyalty above all else, in a way that Daniel can relate to. That plus the sudden eye contact, sitting close together on the floor, Daniel’s bent knee pressed against his thigh—it feels intimate. And maybe Daniel’s crazy or maybe it’s the booze, but Johnny looks good in that dumb red t-shirt, his forearms bared, and with his coarse beard, and they’ve been getting along tonight, and Johnny asked him to stay: offered him a ride home, turned the engine off, kept giving him beers and food. It’s not what he would have expected from Johnny. 

“What’s the deal with the eagle?” Daniel asks suddenly, grasping for an excuse to be staring at his chest. 

Johnny startles slightly, glancing down at his own t-shirt. He scoffs. “I dunno. Eagles are cool. What’s the deal with the gay little trees?”

Daniel can’t help but laugh at that, even as Johnny seems to realize what he said and attempts to backtrack. 

“I’m not saying, like–” Johnny groans. “No offense to the trees.” 

“Thanks, I’ll pass that on.” It’s quiet for a moment, and it’s hot and stuffy in the truck, from having the grill on earlier, from the lack of real ventilation, only the ceiling vent cracked above them. Daniel can hear traffic noise, but distantly, muffled. He takes a deep breath in. “Well, it’s late. Maybe I should get going.”

“If you want,” Johnny says neutrally, still in no rush to kick him out. Still sitting with his long legs extended in front of him, leaning back. Picking absently at the label on his Coors. 

Daniel feels his pulse quicken. The uncertainty is starting to drive him crazy, and maybe that’s the best part—the wondering, the anticipation—but he’s never been very patient, or particularly good with gray areas, despite all the lectures he got about ‘balance’ while growing up. So he does something stupid or reckless or brave, most likely all three, and leans in and kisses him. 

It’s a question and he gets an answer almost immediately when Johnny’s hand winds tight around his arm and pulls him closer. Daniel’s on his knees next to him, twisted toward him and he’s got the height advantage in this position, one hand curled under Johnny’s jaw, tipping his face up. When Daniel slips his tongue against his lips, the response is gratifying. Johnny exhales in a rush through his nose and his mouth falls open; he discards his half-full Coors to the side, where it tips over, spilling and rolling away, and his other hand finds Daniel’s thigh, gripping hard. 

Daniel’s heart is really hammering now, and his mind is racing too much to really think clearly. He’s been up for nearly twenty hours now, he and Johnny are onto their second six pack of beer between the two of them, and—this might as well happen. 

He fists both hands in Johnny’s hair and _pulls_ , relishing how he gasps into his mouth and tightens his fingers on Daniel’s leg. 

Daniel pulls back with a short, breathless laugh, and says, “My knees are killing me. Wanna come inside?” 

Johnny blinks and swallows, his face _moving_ again as he thinks. “Um. It’s… late, I have to get back home, and…” He gestures shortly at the fridge across from them, full of leftover food. 

Daniels stares for a long moment, the smile slowly sliding from his face. He realizes Johnny is serious. 

A rejection is not exactly how he saw this night ending, not after a kiss like _that_. 

Daniel slowly pulls back and stands up, grimacing as his knees—stuck in a bent position for so long, against the hard floor—protest at straightening out. He feels sober all at once—and really, really exhausted. His right pant leg is wet, having absorbed some of the spilled beer. 

It’s embarrassing, too, but he’s good at saving face. So he says, “Okay, see you around, Johnny,” and he’s leaving through the passenger side door before Johnny even stands up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This video](https://youtu.be/QhAXrUXoPTo) got me started on the Okinawan food research, and [this video](https://youtu.be/SoO2sLjt8Lg) is a master class on handmade soba; I borrowed the ‘your eyes can only see one dimension but your fingers can see ten dimensions’ line from this video. Seriously, it’s so Mr. Miyagi. I also went down a Spam research rabbit hole, which is such an interesting topic. I live relatively near the Spam museum and I swear I will go as soon as this vaccine hits. Like as a joke but for real.
> 
> Ok, that’s enough nerdy food stuff, thanks for comments so far and please let me know what you think! It’s much appreciated!


End file.
